


The Wind Sits in the Shoulder of Your Sail

by BirdChild



Category: Batman (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: (apparently my only goal as a fanfic writer is to make Tim Drake cry), (because we need more of that right now), (i think), (listen their relationship with Tim is complex), Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon Compliant, Crying, Dead Jake Drake, Dead Janet Drake, Dead Stephanie Brown (as far as anyone knows), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional neglect, Gen, Mentioned Cassandra Cain, Mentioned Dick Grayson, Mentioned Jason Todd, Post-Crisis, Report Cards, Shakespeare is quoted, Swearing, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Robin, Waffles, angsty fluff, but also good (sometimes) parents Jake and Janet Drake, his life is sad, mild self-harm mention (blink and you'll miss it), talking (this whole fic is just so much talking)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26209273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdChild/pseuds/BirdChild
Summary: "At least, back then, Tim had barely been a teenager. He could almost forgive his own volatility. And he’d been smart enough (scared enough?) not to tell Jack that he didn’t need him.What was his excuse now? Bruce was his dad (at least, in the legal sense), but (surprise, surprise) it turned out that Tim wasn’t any better at being a son."Or Tim and Bruce still have some things to sort through after the adoption.
Relationships: Stephanie Brown/Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 35
Kudos: 423
Collections: Tim Drake and Red Robin Stories





	The Wind Sits in the Shoulder of Your Sail

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to write a longer sequel to Redrawing the Lines. (Something with a plot?) But it turns out, that's hard. In the meantime, I just needed some happy, fluffy Tim-and-Bruce-having-a-good-relationship stuff. *Barricades my heart against current canon.*
> 
> How old is Tim at any point in canon, ever? I’ve made him sixteen here. Also, I’m ignoring whatever nonsense is going on with Cass at this point in the comics.

“You want to go to dinner, champ?” Jack casually dropped his duffel bag onto the floor of eight-year-old Tim’s bedroom.

“You’re early!” Tim, thrilled, jumped up from the model of Gotham he’d been assembling. His parents never got back from a dig early.

“Yeah. Monsoon season was early too.” Jack gave Tim a quick, tight hug. “Anyway, get your shoes on, and your mom and I will tell you all about it over dinner. I’m thinking Italian?”

“Sure! But I gotta call Mrs. Garner and tell her I’m not going to need a ride to gymnastics tonight.”

“You’ve got a competition tonight?” Jack’s eyes shone as he glanced at the small shelf he’d installed for Tim’s trophies and ribbons.

“Just a regular class. I can skip for one night.” Tim didn’t point out that this information was all on the calendar by the phone. Or that he’d been attending gymnastics every Tuesday for three years now.

Jack frowned, and Tim’s heart sunk.

“If you made a commitment to gymnastics, Tim, then you have to keep it. If you skip classes, how well are you going perform at meets?”

Tim toed the carpet, knowing he’d already lost his chance. “I’d just rather spend the time with you and Mom.”

“We’ll go to dinner some other night.” (They wouldn’t—not before they left for Egypt in three weeks. And Tim already knew this.) “Part of growing up is honoring your commitments. If you skip classes, you’re letting your teammates down. And me and your mom. Do you understand?”

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

The disappointment felt like a physical weight on his chest. But Tim told himself that he wasn’t going to cry. Crying was the worst. If he started, someone would click their tongue and say, “Maybe you need to go lie down for a while, Tim.” Because “lying down for a while” was the solution to all of Tim’s problems: crying too much, getting angry, over-excited rambling. “A while” was unspecified—however long it took for his parents to forget that he’d been sent away in the first place. Often, they had left the house by the time “a while” had passed.

Now Janet was in the doorway. “I’m up for anything but that chintzy spaghetti place—Jack! What did you do?”

“Nothing! He just started crying!”

Tim scrubbed desperately at his face.

“Funny how that always happens after you’ve talked to him.” Janet was rubbing Tim’s back now, glaring at her husband. “Maybe you need lie down for a bit, Tim?”

“No!”

Startled, Janet stepped back, and the loss of her hands felt like an October chill passing through Tim’s bones.

“I’m fine.” From some place below the weight of his disappointment and guilt Tim pulled up the brightest, sincerest-feeling smile he could find. “I was just having a hard time with gymnastics, but Dad gave me some good advice.”

“I told you he was fine.” Jack crossed the room, pulled a tissue from the box by Tim’s bed, and curled Tim’s small fingers around it. “Just go to your class and make us proud, okay?”

“I will. Thanks, Dad.”

Many months later, while his parents were in Italy, Tim canceled his gymnastic lessons. He was more interested in what they’d taught him about Robin than in the trophies. And if Jack noticed the change in Tim’s schedule, he didn’t remember to bring it up.

******

Tim’s very favorite thing about living at the Manor was walking into a room and finding Bruce or Alfred (or sometimes, Cass) already there, working on their own projects. And even if they were busy (and who, in this house, wasn’t constantly busy?), they were happy to see him.

Bruce’s schedule was unpredictable, due to both his day and his night jobs, but Tim still couldn’t get over how much he _saw_ Bruce—in the Cave, on patrol, at breakfast before work, in his home office in the evening. Tim’s heart gave a small start every time he opened a door and there was Bruce—not dead, not gone, not annoyed at being interrupted.

Tim was happier than he could remember being in ages.

And more on edge than during his first mission as Robin. _Eventually, the other shoe will drop. Something will go wrong. It always does._

One Saturday, Tim came down to a late breakfast to find Bruce reading through a pile of mail—which included Tim’s report card. Even though Tim knew he was passing all his classes, his first impulse was to sneak back upstairs. But he wasn’t a child anymore. He was sixteen.

And Bruce wasn’t Jack. Tim wasn’t going to get shipped off to a new school if something in the report was less than satisfactory.

Tim forced himself all the way into the kitchen.

“Alfred’s gone shopping,” Bruce said without looking up. “But he left your breakfast on the warming tray.”

Tim lifted the lid. Waffles.

For a moment, it felt deliberate. Some kind of sick joke. Or punishment. But then Tim remembered that Alfred couldn’t have known. Waffles were a regular breakfast food that normal people ate without thinking about their dead girlfriend.

Tim pretended to eat and peruse the papers. But as soon as Bruce set down the report card, he quipped, “So what’s the diagnosis?”

“Not great,” Bruce said bluntly.

Tim reached for the card and scanned the grade column. “I’m not failing anything,” he pointed out. “I don’t have anything below a C.”

“I know how smart you are—and these grades don’t reflect that.”

Tim shrugged. “I don’t expect them to. That’s not where I’m spending my energy.”

“Mm,” Bruce agreed. “I think you should start spending more energy on school. You can cut back on patrolling if balancing that with school and the Titans is too much.”

Tim’s fork clattered across his plate. “You can’t be serious. You know grades can’t be the most important thing in my life right now.”

Bruce frowned. “Right now is exactly when grades need to be important. You’re going to be applying to universities soon.” He reached for the _Gotham Gazette_. As if that concluded their discussion.

_Maybe it should._ Tim wasn’t used to arguing with Bruce, and this was the point where he’d learned to back down with his dad. But Robin had plenty of experience disagreeing with Batman, and Robin would only be getting started.

Tim tugged the _Gazette_ just out of reach. “Am I? Or did you just decide that?”

A little furrow appeared between Bruce’s brows. “Last week, you said wanted to study robotics. . . .”

Tim felt a flush wash over him. That had just been a casual remark while they were looking at schematics from WayneTech’s R&D department. The fact that Bruce remembered flustered him for some reason. “Yeah, well, we can’t always have what we want. You taught me that.”

Bruce’s eyebrows went up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tim wasn’t entirely sure.

*****

“Don’t go!”

“He’s never like this,” Janet assured both the sitter and the neighborhood at large.

The taxi driver shrugged and pulled out a magazine. The meter was already running—what did he care?

“We’ll have so much fun while your parents are away, Tim!” the new sitter chirped. “We’ll color and we’ll read stories and—”

“I _hate_ coloring!” Tim spat. “And I can read to myself.”

“Tim! Don’t be rude.”

The Thornton-Twaites’s dog walker passed by and didn’t even pretend to hide his smirk.

“This was a mistake,” Jack murmured. “We should have slipped out while he was sleeping.”

“It’s almost time for _Crocky_ ,” the sitter added, hopefully. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen—Janet called her the “nanny.” But looking back, Tim was pretty sure she had just been the daughter of Jack’s secretary, trying to earn some extra cash between semesters.

Looking back, Tim felt sorry for her.

“Don’t _pa-tro-nize_ me!” six-year-old Tim wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but he’d heard Mom hiss that at Dad when she wanted him to shut up.

The sitter shot Janet a pleading look.

Janet sighed and gave up trying to pry Tim’s fingers off of her skirt. “Tim’s decided he’s ‘too old’ for children’s programming. There’s a stack of _NOVA_ DVDs in the living room that he can watch,” she put her hand on Tim’s chin and forced him to look up at her, “if he’s good. And he _will_ be good and not make things difficult, _won’t he_?” It was her _I-mean-business-young-man_ stare.

Tim just squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t go!”

“Sweetie, Mommy has to go—”

“ _Some_ mommies stay home,” Tim accused.

Jack whistled a long, low note and stared down the street.

Janet recoiled—and for moment, Tim thought that he had won, that the trip would be canceled and the taxi driver sent away and there wouldn’t be any more talk about stupid coloring.

Then Janet put a hand on her hip and asked, matter-of-factly, “Tim, do you know how many people work at Drake Industries?”

Tim shook his head.

“27,000 world-wide. Do you know how many that is?”

Tim scrunched up his face. _More than 100. More than 1,000, which is ten 100s._ “A lot,” he said, finally.

“That’s 27 groups of 1,000 people, so yes, a lot. And if your father and I don’t go on this trip, do you know what happens?”

“Something bad?” Tim ventured, already dreading the answer.

“If we don’t go on this trip, Drake Industries loses money. And if we lose too much money, some of those people lose their jobs. And if we stay home for long enough, we lose even more money, and all 27,000 people lose their jobs. And when people lose their jobs, do you know what happens?”

“They don’t have money,” Tim whispered.

“And if they don’t have money what happens to them?”

Tim squirmed.

“Timothy.”

“They can’t buy stuff, like food.”

Janet ticked off on her fingers: “Or medicine when their kids are sick or pay for houses for their families to stay in or clothes for their children to wear. And what happens when people don’t have those things?”

“They . . . die?”

“They die,” Janet confirmed. “Do you really want me to call up the board and say, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t care about the lives of 27,000 people and their families—I have to stay home to keep my son, Tim, happy’?”

Tim looked down at his shoes and shook his head.

“Look at me when we’re talking.”

Tim glanced up through his fringe. “Don’t call them. I’m sorry.”

Janet crouched down, balanced precariously in her heels, and put her hands on either side of Tim’s face. “We can’t be selfish, Tim. And when you ask me to stay home, you’re being selfish.”

Tim bit his lip and blinked.

Janet brushed his cheek with her thumb. “We don’t have time for the waterworks today. Just give your mommy a hug and promise you’ll do better.”

The force of Tim’s hug almost knocked Janet over. “I promise,” he whispered desperately into her blouse.

“There’s my good boy.” Janet kissed his cheek and passed him over to Jack who patted his back and muttered some vague combination of “that’s all right” and “be good” before escaping into the taxi.

For years afterward, what Tim remembered about that day was the feel of his mother’s cool, soft hands on the sides of his face, as she looked intently into his eyes and said, “We can’t be selfish, Tim.” That had been the last time he asked his parents to stay home. (Even young Tim realized that their archeological trips were not the same as their business trips. But he didn't ask them to stay home from those either.)

More recently, Tim’s memory of the scene had expanded: watching the taxi pull away through bleary eyes, as his new sitter wrapped an arm around him and intoned, as much to herself as to Tim, “Kid, your mom is terrifying.”

*****

Tim needed to get back to the main point of this argument. “My work as Robin is more important than whatever I end up doing after high school.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“Listen, if I have to choose between A’s in physics and saving lives, I’m going to choose lives. It’s that simple.”

“No.” Bruce shook his head. “By that logic, you’d never sleep or shower or take time off. You have to pace yourself if you’re going to be any good to anyone. _That_ ’s what I taught you.”

“‘As I say and not as I do’?”

A small twitch told Tim that this remark had hit home, and he felt an unusually vicious satisfaction.

But all that Bruce said was “I’m trying to help you avoid my mistakes. You told me once that you weren’t me—that you needed a regular life. And school is part of that.”

Normally, Tim appreciated Bruce’s calm. Jack would have been yelling already—Jack probably would have started with yelling. But today, Bruce impassiveness irritated.

“ _Now_ you decide to care about that?”

“Excuse me?” An edge of warning in that tone.

Normal Tim, _Smart_ Tim would have backed off—but apparently, only Reckless Tim was available today. “You’re the reason my school record is so spotty."

*****

His grades and attendance used to be _perfect_.

Not that it mattered. His parents seemed determined to switch schools every five months. Or every time they remembered that they had a child.

“But I like Fox Elementary!”

Janet had laughed. “You’re in second grade. You don’t know what you like yet. This new school has a nationally recognized gifted program and a brand-new computer science lab. Trust me. You’ll love it.”

“But what about my friends?”

“You’ll make new friends in no time, champ.” Jack rubbed his hands together. “Heck, the mayor’s son goes to school here. Maybe you’ll make friends with him.”

“I don’t want new friends!”

“Most kids don’t get these kinds of opportunities, Tim. Anyway, the paperwork’s already been signed. You start next week.”

*****

“You basically told me I’d have to decide what was the most important to me—being Robin or having a life. So I chose Robin.”

“At that point, I was still half hoping you’d change your mind,” Bruce admitted.

“And I was hoping to keep you from self-destructing.” Tim sawed at his waffle. “It looks like only one us got our wish.”

“I’m not arguing with you. I wasn’t the one receiving your report cards then. But I am now. And I’m telling you, you can do better.”

“Now that it will reflect poorly on you if I don’t?” The words came out coolly, but Tim’s heart felt like he'd just run 20 laps around the Manor.

Bruce stared at him, eyes narrowed, for a long a moment, but Tim refused to look away.

Finally, Bruce took a sip of coffee, releasing his gaze. “This is not about me. I don’t know how Jack—”

“Don’t.”

The coffee cup hovered just beyond Bruce’s mouth.

“Don’t act like you’re better than him.”

Tim didn’t remember standing. And even though a million alarm bells were ringing in Tim’s head, breaking through Bruce’s patronizing façade felt worth whatever the fallout would be.

“I’d never say that, Tim. I know I can’t replace your dad.” Bruce spoke softly, as though Tim were a small child or a wild animal. Tim wasn’t sure which felt worse.

Smart Tim knew that now was the time to sit back down, to apologize and let Bruce chalk everything up to the anger of grief. _The one emotion he actually understands._ But Reckless Tim still had a pocket full of matches—and a growing curiosity about what left in his life was flammable.

“Really? Because you sure were pissed with me when I gave up being Robin to go home with my dad—even though I did it to protect _your_ identity. I didn’t hear a peep from you until you needed me again.”

“You think I _wanted_ to give you up? I was respecting your choice!”

“And that’s why you hired Stephanie— _my girlfriend_ —the second I quit? Because you respected my choice, and not to tick me off? If—”

Guilt. Naked guilt all over Bruce’s face.

Tim turned away. _Nope._ Even Reckless Tim was not going there. He didn’t even have the words for going there.

“I know,” Bruce said, with a heaviness that sent all the shame bubbling up from Tim’s gut. ’Cause that’s what Bruce needed, the reminder of another death he could feel responsible for. _Great job, Boy Wonder. Maybe if you try hard enough, you can get him back to post-Jason levels of self-destructive behavior?_

“I’m not—” Tim shook his head. “I don’t—” And he shook his head again. Waffles had been a bad idea. Too sweet. His tongue felt sticky and heavy, and his stomach roiled against the sugar.

The silence stretched. ( _AWK-ward,_ Stephanie’s voice stage-whispered in his head.)

The coffee machine beeped. Bruce had forgotten to return the decanter again.

Bruce ignored it. “I think you need—”

“You have _no idea_ what I need!” Apparently, Tim had matches left after all.

“Tim. . . .” Disappointed. As if Bruce had a right to be.

“You made me stumble along on own my own for _years_ , Bruce! If I could handle Blüdhaven, _by myself_ , then I sure as hell don’t need you to tell me what to do about my grades. I don’t need _you_! Stop pretending like you can step in and fix everything now! _It’s too late!_ ” Even Reckless Tim was shocked by that one, and he stepped back from the table, reeling.

Bruce didn’t move. “What you need is to calm down.” Flat, toneless.

Tim took a shuddering breath. _Shit. Shitshitshitshit._

“Apparently, we have a lot more to talk about than grades.” Same flat tone. “We can continue this conversation when you’re able to talk more rationally.” Bruce glanced pointedly toward the stairs, and it was as clear as any “Go to your room, young man!”

Tim fled.

*****

Their worst argument had been right after Jack was released from the hospital. Janet's death had moved from a raw tragedy to a ragged scar. And Jack's promises to "be more involved" were losing some of their shine.

Tim had post-fight bruises he hadn’t covered up (later, he would wonder if maybe he had wanted to see if Jack would even notice). And when he couldn’t give Jack an explanation he liked, Jack threw out: “I’ve never been so disappointed in you until now. What’s _happened_ to you? You’re not the son I know.”

And Tim, tired and sore and full to the brim, exploded. “Who _is_ the son you know, Dad? You don’t know me. You never _bothered_.”

He brought up the boarding schools and the abandonment and the way Jack never seemed to care about him, just his grades.

Tim didn’t know what he had expected.

Jack barked that Tim couldn’t disrespect him just because he was in a wheelchair (as if that had anything to do with _anything_ ) or just because he wasn’t Bruce Wayne.

And in that moment, a part of Tim wished that Bruce was his dad. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. But it was the first time Tim had been able to fully articulate that wish to himself.

At least, back then, Tim had barely been a teenager. He could almost forgive his own volatility. And he’d been smart enough (scared enough?) not to tell Jack that he didn’t _need_ him.

What was his excuse now? Bruce was his dad (at least, in the legal sense), but (surprise, surprise) it turned out that Tim wasn’t any better at being a son.

*****

Bruce wasn’t particularly surprised. He’d had worse arguments with Dick and Jason over stupider things. Tim was due his turn—knowing Tim, probably several years overdue.

It had only been thirty minutes. Normally, Tim needed more time to process. He was like Bruce in that way. But this had been their first blowup since the adoption, and Bruce was unwilling to leave it to fester. Tim also tended to . . . internalize things.

He could hear music through the door, not vengefully loud—not a statement—but loud enough to drown out his knock.

Bruce turned the knob, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought he had miscalculated the severity of their argument, thought the boy had run away. The bed was made and empty. The desk, unoccupied.

Bruce’s gaze flew to the window. Closed.

And sitting against that same wall was Tim, with the bed between himself and the door. One hand was over his eyes, and the wrist of his other hand was in his mouth. When a sob shook him, he bit down on his wrist till the shudders passed. Even though his face was glistening, Tim made no sound.

“Tim. . . .”

Tim jerked to his feet. He didn’t say anything, just waited, back to the wall.

If this had been Dick, this would have been the point where the boy would have melted into an offered hug.

But that bed between them was a deliberate barrier Bruce was afraid to cross.

If this had been Jason, Bruce would have sat in his desk chair, talking around the edges of whatever the issue was, until it was safe to move—inch by inch—closer to both the heart of the problem and the boy.

But this was Tim. And Bruce was at a loss.

“I’m sorry.” Tim’s voice was calm, without a quaver, as if they were discussing a case or a lunch order. But his face was streaked with tear tracks that he didn’t wipe away—as though he was hoping that if he didn’t draw attention to them, Bruce wouldn’t notice. “You were right. I’ll bring my grades up. I promise.” And then he waited, eyes following Bruce.

Bruce turned down the speakers and sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?” he blurted.

Tim drew in a sharp breath, the same sound Bruce had heard him make in the field when an opponent’s weapon hit its mark. “Nothing. Sorry. Not enough sleep. I’m calm now.” And he didn’t raise his hand to his mouth, but his fingers twitched.

“I didn’t mean—” Bruce fumbled for a moment. “I don’t need to explain that insults and swearing aren’t going to help your case. But you’re allowed to be mad at me. You’re allowed to . . . have feelings.”

“You do realize how weird it is to hear ‘the Batman’ say that, right?” Tim was approaching the bed now.

“I’m sorry I’m not better at this.”

“No, I—” Tim flopped down on the mattress. “You know I’m joking, yeah? I miss my dad so much I can hardly breathe, sometimes,” (Bruce tried not to wince at how matter-of-factly Tim said that) “but even when things were good, we weren’t exactly having heart-to-hearts every week. I don’t expect—” Tim put his hands over his face and lay, silent, on the comforter for a moment. “You’re doing great, Bruce. Honest. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Besides losing half the people you loved and feeling responsible for the entirety of Gotham?”

“I don’t feel responsible for all of Gotham. I’ll let you have, like, five percent of the responsibility.” Hands still over his face, Tim laughed.

And then he shook. He still didn’t make a sound, but the headboard began to knock lightly against the wall.

Bruce scooped him up as easily as if he were a much younger boy and tucked him against his chest.

For a moment, Tim froze, and Bruce thought he might push away, thought this was the funeral all over again, and he was making too many assumptions about what the boy needed. But then two hands clutched convulsively at his shirt.

Words were never Bruce’s strength, so he just held on and said nothing.

Tim released his breath in small, staggered gasps. “Sorry—I’m okay.” The gasps sped up. “I’m fine.”

Through deaths, injuries, breakups, and illnesses, Bruce could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Tim cry (the most recent being when he had offered, again, to adopt Tim). For as awkward as Bruce always found tears, it had been a relief to know that the boy could still cry. (After his parents’ deaths, Bruce had spent so many years without being able to shed a tear that he had assumed this was just something sorrow eventually did to everyone it touched—bled them dry and left them with a cold void where grief used to be.) But now it struck Bruce that he’d never _heard_ the boy cry.

Bruce cradled the back of Tim’s head. “I know you are,” he said, helplessly. “I know.”

He always said the wrong thing.

 _Dick would be better at this,_ Bruce thought. Cass wouldn’t need words—she would know how to just _be_ in the presence of Tim’s sorrow. Even Alfred might know how to give a permission for grief that Tim could understand.

All Bruce had was his own experience—the understanding that were no stages, not really, only waves to be ridden out, over and over again. And no timeline, only waiting and trying not to drown.

One of Tim’s hands had released his shirt. Bruce didn’t need to look down to know that now it was over the boy’s mouth, struggling to make his grief smaller, his presence . . . less.

Bruce tightened his grip. “I’m not in any hurry,” he said gruffly. “Take your time.”

And that must have been the right “wrong thing” to say because Tim made a small, broken noise and slumped against Bruce’s shoulder. The cries, when they came, were high-pitched and thin, as though they were traveling up a long distance from a much smaller child.

Because any words, any sound, might be construed as an effort to hurry the process along, Bruce held his tongue and held his boy until his arms ached.

Bruce often sensed that he had sacrificed regular, day-to-day skills for his night work. (Or that he’d had no regular skills to begin with—that Batman was the only part of himself that was of use to the world.) Knowing Gotham’s sewer system by heart or the placement of the most vulnerable bones in the human body rarely helped him navigate the office or the dinner table.

But he had learned how to wait, night after night, in the dark, outside of warehouse drug dens and mob boss penthouses. So he waited. And he listened.

Eventually, Tim’s cries sounded more like sobs, and then the sobs became breaths, and finally, the breaths became so quiet that Bruce suspected the boy was asleep. At some point, Bruce would have to shift a little, to return blood flow to his right arm. But he could wait. He was used to discomfort. He was used to waiting.

“Bruce?” Not asleep after all.

“Hm?”

“You got a Kleenex?”

Bruce reached into a pocket and handed the boy a clean handkerchief.

Tim huffed like there was something amusing about it. “Thanks. Alfred’s gonna murder someone if I got snot on your collar.”

Bruce rubbed the boy’s back and scoffed. “He won’t. It’s just Brooks Brothers.”

Tim stopped in the middle of blowing his nose to stare at Bruce.

“What?” Bruce asked innocently. He was pleased to see that the muscles around Tim’s mouth were relaxed, despite his red-rimmed eyes.

“Oh my god. _Bruce._ I can’t even tell if you’re serious. When everybody finally eats the rich—they’re going to eat you first.”

“Probably.” Bruce brushed a hand over Tim’s hair.

Tim cupped the handkerchief between his palms, abruptly serious. “I know I’m too old, but thanks.”

“Too old for what?”

Tim looked down at his hands as he opened and closed them over the handkerchief. “Just all of this. I’m sorry. I know I was awful. But thanks for not—” Tim cut himself off and looked up. “Do you want me to move back into the carriage house?” he asked.

Bruce shot him a sharp look. “Do _you_ want to move back into the carriage house?”

“It might make things easier,” Tim said lightly.

“For whom?” Bruce growled. “If you’re trying to tell me that you need more space, we can work something else out. But this is your _home_ , Tim. You _live_ here.”

Tim released a breath. “Okay,” he said, quietly. “Just making sure.”

Bruce cleared his throat. “I know you said you didn’t need me—”

It was like watching the boy turn to ice. There was no way an actual human child could go that still.

“But the point is that you _have me_ , either way.”

“I don’t know why I said that.” Tim looked back down at his hands.

“Maybe you have a lot of built up things you’ve never said.” _To either Jack or me._

Tim sighed into Bruce's shoulder. “Maybe. But part of growing up is realizing that you can’t say everything you want to.”

“No, you can’t. But there’s some space between everything and nothing.”

Tim was silent as he considered this.

Finally, he pulled away, and Bruce let him. Tim drew his legs up onto the comforter and crossed them at the ankles. His left knee bumped against Bruce’s right knee, and he propped his head up on his hand. “It’s not really fair.”

Many things about Tim’s life weren’t even within sight of fair. Bruce waited for specifics.

“If I take all my anger out on you, just because you’re the one who’s left, that’s not fair.”

“Some of that anger, I know I’ve earned.” Another conversation that probably needed to be had. But Tim looked exhausted, and Bruce could feel the sharp corners of unasked for apologies blocking his airway. He cleared his throat, and what managed to get through was “But there’s a difference between telling me how you feel and ‘taking it out on me.’”

Tim shrugged.

“You don’t agree?”

“No matter how carefully I worded things, if I told Dad I was angry or unhappy or didn’t want what he wanted—it always ended in a fight. And I didn’t get to see him that much, you know?” (Bruce did know.) “So after a while, I got smart, and I realized it was a waste to spend all our time arguing. And that was easier. We got even less time than I had expected.” Tim swallowed. “I don’t want to waste all our time arguing. I’m not an unhappy ten-year-old anymore. I can do better.”

Instead of asking exactly how unhappy Tim had been at ten, Bruce ran his thumb under Tim’s eye and swept away the water Tim had ducked his head to hide. “When Jack—when he left that message. . . .” Tim stiffened and Bruce knew didn’t have clarify which message. “He said you weren’t to blame yourself, and I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself for the time you didn’t get to have together—or even the times he couldn’t always be what you needed.”

Tim was so still that Bruce was certain he’d crossed the line. They didn’t talk about Jack and Janet’s neglect, but it had always formed the backdrop to Bruce and Tim’s relationship. It was what had made Tim’s role as Robin possible. And if Tim sometimes sensed that Bruce resented Jack . . . well, he had always been a good detective.

“And when he told me to take care of you, I know he didn’t just mean keeping you alive.”

“How do you know that?” Tim asked, his face still obscured.

Bruce put his hand on Tim’s knee and squeezed gently. “Because that’s what I would want if our roles were reversed. You don’t need _me_ to tell you that there are no perfect parents. But Jack loved you. And he would want you to be happy. Even if that means acknowledging the areas where he was less than perfect.”

Tim looked up and frowned. Bruce wondered what was written on his face because the boy was now scanning it like a crime scene.

******

There had had been another night Tim came home with bruises. But he was smarter by that point, had done such a good make-up job that even Alfred wouldn’t have been able to see through it.

And Jack had taken one look at his face and then handed him an ice pack from the freezer.

That was the first time Tim had felt _seen_ by his father.

It was everything Tim had wanted from their relationship. And it was terrifying.

No shouting or recrimination. Just the weight of how much Jack now knew, and how much that knowledge hurt him, daily.

Tim had long ago accepted that loving people was a painful, thankless process. What he hadn’t been prepared for was the knife of being loved in return.

And the way Bruce was looking at Tim now, _seeing_ him, felt like being stabbed all over again.

Maybe this was selfish—setting Bruce up for another Jason Todd moment.

Maybe this was a betrayal of Jack. As if all the effort his dad had made in those last months hadn’t been enough.

 _Maybe you get to be happy sometimes, Boy Wonder._ When had Stephanie said that? Tim tried to tilt the memory, grasp some surrounding context, but all he saw was her elbowing him playfully.

_Isn’t that what you told me?_

It was. They’d been on a stake-out, and Stephanie had been talking about her mom’s brand-new sobriety. “And I’m happy—of course, I’m happy—but I keep thinking, ‘How long can this possibly last?’ And somehow everything’s easier _and_ harder? Now she wants to know where I’m going all the time, who I’m with. And there are only so many ways to say, ‘Definitely _not_ to a crime-riddled back alleyway with a boy who’s never seen a real robin!’ (no offense). I used to have to make sure she ate before she passed out after work. And now she’s making me waffles for breakfast. Waffles, Tim. What I am I supposed to do with that?”

Tim refocused his binoculars for the fifteenth time. “I don’t know. Eat the waffles, I guess.”

“Gee. Thanks, Boy Genius.” Stephanie smacked his arm, hard.

Tim smirked when she shook out her hand a second later.

“I keep forgetting you have that stupid sleeve armor now.”

“What I mean is maybe you just get to be happy with your mom sometimes? Don’t you think you guys deserve that?”

Stephanie didn’t reply. But after a moment, she leaned back against Tim’s chest. After another moment, Tim put down the binoculars and pulled her closer, resting his chin on top of her head. Stephanie laughed, softly.

Then she reached back and tugged at the edges of Robin’s cape, pulling it around them both till they were a tight bundle of warmth. Tim noticed that tonight her hair smelled like green apples. “They’re pretty good waffles,” she admitted.

*****

“Okay,” Tim said.

Bruce settled back against the headboard and waited.

“I don’t know how to do this.” Tim fiddled with a loose thread on the cuff of his jeans. “With Dad it felt like things swung between him not even knowing—or caring—if I was home for weeks at a time to him suddenly questioning what I wore to school in the morning. We evened out later, but I didn’t get a lot of practice before he died.” Tim shrugged. “I don’t know what’s normal anymore. But if you want me to get A’s in English or to be home at . . . at eleven on school nights, I mean, that’s your call now, isn’t it?” Tim flushed. He wasn’t even sure what a curfew for a “normal” high school student was.

Tim slid Bruce an evaluating glance, but Bruce had switched on to “unreadable” mode. Tim yanked a little more viciously at the thread. It didn’t come loose.

“Some of the worst arguments we ever had were about school—and I couldn’t even tell him why I was skipping class or sneaking off the grounds. And you can only promise someone to do better so many times before they stop believing you.”

Tim stood up and rummaged through his desk. Bruce didn’t ask, but Tim felt compelled to throw out, “I had a pair of scissors in here at one point.”

“Here.”

When Tim looked back, Bruce was holding out a small pocketknife with a dark wood handle.

“Do you always carry a pocketknife with you?” That seemed rather un-billionaire-like to Tim. Batman wore a utility belt. But Bruce Wayne floated through the world on nothing but his smile and his line of credit.

“No.”

Tim decided he didn’t have the energy to question the daily contents of Bruce’s pockets. Instead, he took the knife. The blade swiped through thread like it was air.

“This is harder because we’re doing some things in reverse,” Bruce said, finally, accepting his knife back. “You’re at the age when most parents are trying to encourage good decision-making and self-reliance. For better or worse, you learned that long before I met you.” Bruce made a noise in his throat. “What you’re still learning is that you can ask for help.”

Tim took a deep breath and closed his eyes. This was not new information, so Tim wasn’t sure why Bruce saying it out loud felt like a kick to his solar plexus.

“I’m sorry I haven’t always made that clear.”

Eyes still closed, Tim warned, “I’m not going to be very good at this.”

“You don’t have to be. We have time to practice. We have plenty of time.”

Instead of reassurance, Tim felt his ribs constrict. “I’ll be eighteen in two years.”

“You don’t stop being somebody’s child just because you’re legally an adult.”

Tim opened his eyes.

Bruce was giving him an amused look Tim didn’t fully know how to interpret. But there was a patience behind it that Tim recognized, and he felt the knot in his chest loosen, even as he asked, “So what next?”

Bruce jerked his head toward the empty spot next to him and said, “Now you explain why you aren’t interested in bringing your grades up.”

 _Oh. . . ._ Tim had somehow thought that part of the discussion was over. He slid up against the headboard. “I will if it’s so important to you,” Tim promised, quietly. It was relief to sit next to Bruce, not having to look him in eyes but still able to be close, and to talk about something as mundane as school.

Bruce bumped his shoulder, lightly. “I’m still confused about why it isn’t important to _you_.”

“It’s not practical,” Tim burst out. “My grades are good enough to keep me out of trouble, but not so good that Timothy Drake-Wayne’s going to start attracting undue attention. My teachers either think I’m a smart kid who doesn’t apply himself, or an averagely intelligent kid who’s doing his best. And that’s good for Robin. I already know most of the material—I’m losing points on things like attendance and projects—the stuff that takes time.”

“And English,” Bruce pointed out.

“Mr. Finch just grades down my papers ’cause he thinks I don’t do all the reading. I do fine on the tests,” Tim grumbled.

There was pause. “You’re not doing the reading, are you?” Bruce said.

“Not _all_ of it. But I read the SparkNotes, Bruce.”

An even longer pause.

Tim forced himself to keep looking straight ahead. “I just can’t see how reading _The Grapes of Wrath_ is a good use of my time.”

“Really.” Bruce’s tone was so dry that Tim could hear hints of Alfred in it. “You don’t think that the interplay of money and politics, the oppression of the poor, and the ways people behave in the midst of widespread tragedy has _any_ connection to _any_ part of your life?”

“Sure, it does. But all that was in the SparkNotes.”

Bruce released long-suffering sigh. And Tim remembered, too late, that Jason had been a reader. And a straight-A student.

Tim held out his hands. “Look, I already promised that I’d bring up my grades. I’ll do the reading too, if it matters to you. But the grades are never going to matter to me on a personal level. What I’ve learned here, as Robin, has been a lot more important to me.”

*****

“All right,” Bruce said, finally.

“What?”

“All right. I’d prefer it if you kept your grades at a B+ or above, but I trust you to make the right decision about your priorities. I’m not going to make a big deal about your grades as long as they don’t get worse, and you’re actually learning.”

“I—really?” Tim turned and stared at him in disbelief.

“Really. I’d still like you to do your English reading. I think you’ll find it more fulfilling than you’re expecting. But we’re well past the point where I can pick priorities for you.”

Bruce didn’t mention that he was afraid that if he insisted that Tim brought his grades up that Tim would in fact keep his promise—while still running himself into the ground with the Titans and patrolling.

A year ago, Bruce had assured a worried Alfred that Tim knew his own limits. But since that moment of blind hubris, it had become obvious that Tim had more of Bruce’s own flaws than were originally apparent.

Because he couldn’t help himself, Bruce added, “Just keep in mind that you can’t put ‘crime fighting’ under community service on college applications.”

*****

Tim supposed it was compliment, in a way—Bruce’s insistence that he could do things besides punch criminals. But these past two years had stripped away almost everything, and in doing so, had left Tim with one certainty: being Robin was the best, most fulfilling part of his life.

“You don’t think having Drake- _Wayne_ across the top of my application is going to help me even a little?” Tim teased.

Bruce tilted his head, as if trying to figure out how serious Tim was.

“Look, I’m not asking you to buy a building or anything. I’m just saying, I’m only keeping one identity a secret. Are you telling me Dick didn’t play up ‘the Bruce Wayne connection’ when he was applying to schools?”

“Dick wouldn’t even do the Gotham U. campus tour _because_ I happened to know the dean,” Bruce grumbled.

Tim laughed. “Well, he also dropped out of Hudson, so see how far that took him? Also, I can’t believe he tried to study _business_ of all things.”

“He was good at it.”

_“Dick?”_

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Who do you think handled all the Titans’ finances? He’s got a great head for numbers—but he gets bored if things are too repetitive.”

“That asshat,” Tim whispered to himself.

“I’ve let some swearing slide today,” Bruce said. “But I’m drawing the line at made-up words.” 

Tim entertained the idea of trying to explain the etymology of _asshat_ to a man who still used _chum_ as a term of endearment—and quickly dismissed it. “Sorry. But whenever we get lunch, he _always_ makes me calculate the tip. ‘Oh, don’t ask me, Timmy! I’m just a poor business school drop-out.’ Like, _every_ time.”

Bruce snorted. “It’s his way of trying to make sure no one asks him to run WE when I’m gone.”

When Tim had first become Robin, almost any mention of Dick’s decisions was met with a wall of silence so high Tim had no idea what was on the other side—disapproval? regret? disappointment?

A lot had changed since then. So maybe that was why Tim hugged his knees to his chest and asked, “What if I never go to college?”

“Well, first, I think you’ll get bored. You . . . enjoy your civilian life more than I do. You use it as a counterbalance to Robin.”

That had been true, once. Tim wasn’t sure how much he enjoyed his civilian life anymore.

There was a knock, and at Tim’s “come in,” Alfred peered around the door. “Master Tim, I wondered if—” Seeing Bruce stretched out next to Tim, he smiled. “Well, that’s one mystery solved.”

Bruce stood up. “I’d be a hypocrite if I insisted that you finish a four-year degree, but Alfred’s tired of being the only college graduate in the family.”

Tim glanced at Alfred.

“Dramatic arts,” Bruce explained. “Ask him about it sometime. But be prepared to sit through Polonius’s monologue.”

“One time, Master Bruce.” Alfred raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I regaled you _one time_ —when you were eight. And you’ve yet to forgive me.”

“I think I remember that one,” Tim said innocently. “‘Neither a lender nor a lendee be. . . something, something, to thine own self be true. . . .”

“‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be.’ And that’s rather the end of the speech.”

“Oh. Maybe you could refresh my memory?”

Not Tim’s most subtle work, but at Bruce’s exaggerated groan, Alfred arched an eyebrow. “Just for that, Master Bruce, I think I must.”

 _On the other hand,_ Tim thought—grinning as Alfred launched into “Yet here, Laertes!”— _this part of my civilian life isn’t half bad. Maybe we do get to be happy sometimes._

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve referenced two different comics in flashbacks, one is Robin III: Cry of the Huntress #4, in which Jack and Tim have their big argument. (And after the fight, we see Tim on the stairs with the back of his hand pressed into his mouth, and that image has always stuck with me.) The other comic is Identity Crisis #3. (I don’t like the Identity Crisis storyline, but the parallel between Jack’s early response to Tim’s post-fight bruises and his later response is so beautiful.)
> 
> Writing canon-compliant versions of Tim’s parents is hard because Tim both loves them deeply and is well aware that they were neglectful. It's because of them that Tim's relationship to authority figures is so complex. He’s constantly hoping to earn approval and love but is also sort of resigned to the fact that he’ll probably never get it.
> 
> There’s zero canon evidence that Alfred has a degree (he probably went straight into military service). But it felt right.
> 
> Also, more recent comics tend to portray Dick as almost “I’m too pretty to do math.” But that doesn’t really make sense with the sort of calculations that are involved in his night job (e.g., forensics and grappling hook trajectories). In earlier comics, he didn’t drop out of Hudson because he was bad at his major (he dropped out for other reasons). And yes, he handled the Titans’ finances.
> 
> I definitely headcanon that part of the reason Dick’s Robin was so known for his “Holy Haberdashery!” nonsense is because Bruce is just a full-on “Dad” about swearing. Like, he might let an eight-year-old punch criminals, but there is no way this child is allowed to say “hell” when he bruises his knuckles. How would that look? Robin is a role model, chum. Also, Alfred having a swear jar is canon. If he is running comms, he will threaten you with it. Even if you are grown man who doesn’t even live in the Manor anymore.


End file.
